In the end, it doesn't matter
by Beenieboo
Summary: When the Winter Soldier is sent to complete what he thinks will be a simple mission, the outcome puts into motion a set of events that will change, James Buchanan Barnes' life forever.


Breaking through through Stark's defences was too easy. There was only one goal - kill the scientist. It didn't matter to the Winter Soldier why. Orders were orders. Anguished screams to run, clear out, barely deter him from his goal. Suppressing fire used to corner him is useless, he picks of the shooters one by one. He stalks into the lab, just as two brunettes scramble out an unguarded exit. Voices fading the further they move from him.

'Jane move your ass, now!'

The desperate cry punctuates the sirens wailing all around. She momentarily glances backwards, nearly stumbling he notes. Dragging his target behind her. This female is unexpected. Something about her urgency and determination drives him forward ever faster. Killing two brunettes instead of one, makes little difference to him.

Cocking his weapon to shoulder height, he fires off a round without breaking stride. The security guard drops to the floor, the sickening thud a tell-tale sign he was dead. The bloom of blood pooling around his head, cementing the fact. If they thought this would slow him down, they were wrong. Breaking into a sprint, he charges forward, hair whipping back revealing the grease paint around his eyes, those dead eyes fixated on the kill.

Closer he gets, frantic banging and screaming to open the door. Nobody comes. Human nature, it's not like the films where some kindly soul will take chance and rescue the damsel in distress. When it comes down to it, people will save themselves, fuck everyone else. That is what he thought, until today, until he saw her. Backed into a corner, she places her body in front of the scientist's, arms outstretched as if that will stop him from getting her.

'Stay away! I will shoot you!'

He notices the tremor, not a trained weapons handler. Stupid then to threaten him. Quickly he glances at the scientist, she's frozen to the spot, cowering, the fight gone from her eyes. She knows. Yet, the other female, subject unknown, still holds hope. He can see it, from her stance, to the way she plants herself firmly in place. Squeezing off a shot, missing by meters. He doesn't recoil from, statistically none of the shots will hit him.

He aims, one shot, she crumples to the floor, the gun glides across the floor. A small part of him grudgingly admires the reckless bravery. Reaching the scientist, Jane Foster, her name momentarily flashes across his mind, for reasons unknown. His palm darts outwards, finding her neck, his grip slowly choking the life out the female. Her lips turning blue, eyes bulging out of their sockets, the frantic clawing and kicking, just a faint annoyance. He is in the zone, none of it matters. And then he's done.

Eight months' pass...reassurances given, he is free now. Pardoned for all crimes. It was not his fault. His mind, his body was not his own. _It is not your fault._ The mantra he's been trained to repeat, over and over again, whenever he feels himself giving into the sorrow. It would be so easy to give up and never get up again. The people he hurt, killed, never will again. _It is not your fault._ Those words made him do it.

' _The trigger made you controllable, you were not responsible for your actions'._

Steve is so god damn earnest, it makes him want to run, leave this place, and never come back. He doesn't deserve the belief. But he promised. Promised he would not run. He wants to believe, needs believe nothing can _ever_ never trigger him again. _But how can they ever really know?_ He still barely sleeps, all the faces, especially her's appear on loop throughout the night. Taunting him of the person that he was, could still be.

Scowl etched in place, stomping the pavements to his appointment. People, they all give him a wide berth. Danger emanates from his very being, like a pheromone warning everyone off. _Stay the fuck away!_ It doesn't help, his hair is unkempt, falling past his shoulders. His eyes rimmed eyes, constantly scanning, seeking, assessing all around, are good indicators that this person, him is not safe. If they are afraid of him, they will stay away, he will never hurt anyone again. That's a good thing, it's a sacrifice he'll make, being alone, it doesn't really matter. Not after everything he has done.

It's that time of day, brain fuckery 101. He finds these mandated sessions funny, not _ha ha_ , but farcical. What can these people do to help?

' _Come on Buck, please? They will never leave you alone unless you can show them you are trying to get better'_

The therapist, Dr Julietta Read, the latest in the line of doctors clambering to fix his mind, and no doubt use his experience to further her own agenda. He's just realised why he's uncomfortable around her. Session three, and it dawns on him that Dr Read remind him of _her_. Not physically, no that would be crazy. He is not crazy, Steve reassures him of that. It's the stance, not backing off or down, when he refuses to answer the questions, intimidate her to go away. How can she not realise he's is not ready? Not ready for anyone to be in his head again. He observes her, back towards the door, the room brightly lit, chintzy - pastel colours everywhere, he supposes it's meant to be soothing.

Really, for such a large space, all the paraphernalia of therapy are clustered very close together. Her black leather recliner, where she sits, has seen better days, it's scuffed, and distractingly for him, a piece of material forever swings in the breeze of the AC. Super soldier senses leave him so damn observant of everything. She leaves very little personal space between them, so much so, whenever she moves he can count the race of her pulse in her neck. She's not frightened of him. Why should she be? He's not dangerous anymore.

Cushions are strewn over the three-person leather couch; he absentmindedly plays with purple tassels on the cushion closest to him. The juxtaposition of the soft materials against his metal fingers, the tactile sensation, is also distracting.

And so, begins their ritual for the next 60 minutes

'How are you today?'

'Same'

'You seem anxious. What are you thinking about?'

'Same'

'Are you ready to tell me about the dreams…?'

'No'

'How are the headaches?'

'Same'

Always the same questions. Responses grunted out in that specific order. _It's all a waste of time, it really is_. He balks of the memory _of her_ , where it comes from, he doesn't know. Dr Read fades into background, white noise. He thinks, if he concentrates hard enough, maybe he can disappear too.

'Where are you now, Mr Barnes?'

Nowhere, somewhere, anywhere but here, he wishes. But in the end, does it really matter?

Fourteen months' pass...a breakthrough, finally a therapist that he relates to. 

'I'm not a therapist' _,_ Sam stoically responds during their boxing session. He finds it's a sensible way to deal with the anxiety, help him regain his focus. Punch someone who has a chance against him in a fight. 'But, if you want to talk, I want to listen…'

So, each week Sam listens without judgement and calls him out on his bullshit when he's trying his damndest to be so bloody minded.

'Don't take it out on me... take it out on that…' steering him towards a punch bag after a particularly vigorous sparring session. Punch after punch, jab after jab till everything burns and darkness clouds his vision. He thinks he'll faint, or maybe he'll have a panic attack. He knows he's not breathing deeply enough to keep steady, or drinking enough to sustain the level of exertion. His throat burns, he fights for breath. Haltingly, his forehead rest against the punching bag, his head throbs as he brokenly whispers'I'm so sorry', uncertain if it's tears or sweat that stings his eyes. But in the end, does it really matter?

'Have you seen her again?'

Steve casually asks as they weave through the pedestrians around Brooklyn. They're jogging at a steady pace, even though It's really really hot, _unseasonal heatwave_ , the newscaster alerting the nation that morning. Sun up high, still his arm is covered up. He may not be that man anymore, but he's certainly recognisable as that man _if_ his arm is exposed. Hair pulled back in a man bun, a few stray strands lay slicked to his forehead. Ignoring the question for a few more miles, he knows who Steve means, and it's nobody's business but his own. Not even Sam asks that anymore. He's been doing better, sometimes he even gets through the whole night without a single nightmare.

'Bucky?'

Palm splayed across his chest, preventing forward momentum. He resignedly acquiesces to Steve's unspoken demand to halt. There it is, that tone, the one they all give him when they're worried that he'll retreat to that dark place. Taking a slug from the lukewarm water bottle. Just this once, he'll answer, just this once. 

'I want to see her, I need to see her'.

He keeps the next part to himself, _for atonement_ , but in the end, does it really matter?

Eighteen months' pass...Steve tentatively broaches the subject of joining The Avengers.

'No! Killing is killing, isn't it?' shouting even louder, 'there's no grey area, no moral ambiguity. Once a life is gone, there's no bringing it back. I'm not going back there'.

He is adamant, and no amount of justification or persuasion will make him change his mind. But he does need something to occupy his time, then one day it comes to him - carpentry. He has no recollection of ever doing it, but the need to make something out of nothing, to create spurs him on. First, he starts off small, a carving of a knife.

'I am not a therapist…' Sam corrects him for the umpteenth time, _'...but it is fucked up man...'_ grinning over a slice of pizza. 'Still it's really good, hell, it's even balanced for correct throwing action...only you Bucky, only you…' Sam chuckles handing back the knife, he brushes his hair forward, convinced the blush he feels will be too visible.

'How on earth did you do this?' Steve's finger tips ghost over the uncanny reproduction.

From a single slab of wood, he's carved out the Brooklyn landscape from memory.

'Dunno', he shrugs, like it's an everyday thing to make such a complicated piece of woodwork. Draining the last of his beer, a hidden smile tugs at his mouth. Schooling his features back to neutral when Steve faces him once again. 

'What else have you done?' Steve charges around the apartment inspecting the artefacts now on display. For the first time, in a long while, the other stuff doesn't matter.

Two years' pass...Steve has finally convinced him to go back as an Avenger, but not to fight. He's responsible for tactical training, finally putting to good use everything he had been trained to do. However, that's not his reason for visiting the Avenger's Tower in New York. His arm needs to be 'tuned up', he explains to Dr Cho about his carvings, and how he needs his fingers to be more sensitive for the ever-intricate aspects of his designs. He doesn't sell the pieces, instead gives them away to interested parties. He's not ready for the inquiry selling his work would generate. If he's honest, he doesn't feel deserving of any such positive affirmation.

Sweat dots his brow, every pull Dr Cho makes he can feel. He likens the sensation to cramp, whenever a nerve is accidently, at least he thinks it's accidental, brushed. The last pull elicits a grimace, and his flesh arm tugs the arm rest harder. Scanning the New York vista, the view offers little respite. It's the first time in a very long time he's been in the building. Steve and Tony might be on speaking terms, but Tony has made it very clear that he's not ready to forgive and forget, yet. Righty so, the self-loathing may have subsided, but it will never be gone. And there are days, such as this, when he is prone to severe introspection, especially when he gazes around the room. From memory, _he can never forget,_ he mentally navigates down the corridor, takes two lefts and a right, and finds himself back at that room, where it all ended, or began according to his therapist.

'Goddamit Barnes, for the last time, I am not a therapist!',he imagines Sam scoff at the moniker he's mentally given him. But he knows Sam understands his hesitance being _there_ again. He steadies his heart rate, the knowing blip blip blip of the monitoring machine regressing to normal.

'Nearly done Mr Barnes',the knowing brown eyes of Dr Cho offer some comfort. But then the guilt comes in waves, threatening to drown him where he sits, and in the end her words really do not really matter.

He knows he's being monitored, has been since he entered the building. The ever-present AI ensuring all security protocols are in place. Months of negotiation between Tony and Steve, and any interested part with a vested interest have led to this moment. He being able to venture into _that_ part of the building. He's overheard Steve and Sam discussing how anyone affected by his actions two years ago, who doesn't want to be at work today has been given the paid day off work. It's only fair.

'I can go with you...you know...just in case…' Steve offers, before laying down a Royal Flush during their monthly poker game. Sam agrees, that maybe he should have someone go with him. He stares them down, assures them it's the right thing to do, to go by himself.

With some trepidation, he continues onwards. Maybe he should have taken Steve up on the offer? Deep breath in to steady his nerves. No, he needs to do this by himself, lay the final ghosts to rest. Walking by, he sees people working at their stations, they pay little or no attention to him. There is the odd glance, but he assumes they're new and haven't yet seen what 'normal' him supposedly looks like. There's no sign of the destruction he once caused, and smartly the walls are now reinforced glass, or what looks like glass. He doubts they'd be so stupid as to put a lethal weapon in his, no, any enemy's path. Smash the glass, stab to the femoral artery, the eye or the throat, hell even the soft fleshy stomach, and he could, no, any enemy could incapacitate a victim.

Then he's there, through the glass he can see scientists working hard, beyond them the exit. He's staring so long, that he doesn't notice the hush ascend over the room. Now he's the one being watched. Swallowing, his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he makes his way into the room. Passing by the desks, they part to let him through, straight out of the exit his footsteps echo around him. Did they do that last time, he does not remember. Strange, he remembers everything, why not that? Ever closer to the end of the corridor where it all happened, he makes out a lone figure, their back towards him. What appears to be a walking stick is rested up against the wall, the person, female he can tell now, is kneeling down.

' _I know you're there'_ , holding up her palm she beckons him closer. Jarvis told me you were on your way.

He hesitates, this is it, what he's been preparing for these last few months. Of all the things he has done, this one thing affects him immensely. Sam and he had discussed it many times, and the only thing they ever agreed upon, was maybe, just maybe this is where his programming began to break down, offering hint of the humanity Hydra thought they had wrestled from him.

Now a few metres from her, she still has her back towards him. Brunette hair cascading down the centre of her back. His heart is racing so hard, he wills it not beat right of his chest.

Apologetically he opens the dialogue, 'I'm James Buchanan Barnes. I am so sorry that I tried to kill you…' He hopes that she can feel the genuine depth of his sorrow. This is the only apology that he can make, which he knows can impact someone's life. He doesn't have anything else to give, and desperately wishes he had more.

Slowly she rises to her feet, and pivots apprehensively to face him. Her green eyes roam over his face, features betraying no hint of any emotion. His face grows warm under the intense scrutiny. Still she says nothing, continuing her exploration, before settling her gaze on his metal hand. Owlishly she blinks, then schools her features.

With his enhanced hearing, he hears her quietly count to three. She closes her eyes, and for the first time, he notices her fists balled up; before flexing her fingers outwards, hitting her palms against her thighs. Expelling a puff of air, she methodically opens her eyes, fixes her gaze intently at him, simply stating, 'I'm Darcy Lewis, and I'm sorry that you tried to kill me. I'm also sorry, that I shot you in the head'.

His hand unknowingly ventures to the spot where the bullet grazed the side of his skull. That one lucky shot, when his back was towards her, preparing to end her friend's life. The headaches that followed him for the past two years, a reminder that she had saved not only her friend's life, but his too. Standing in front of him now, it's nothing compared to the nights he'd been haunted by her. Nights he'd awaken drenched in sweat, chest heaving for precious air, her, the embodiment of all his victims. The one voice to speak for them all.

Clearing her throat, more confidently she continues'...What's done, is done. I've worked through my issues.' A little quieter, '...I just want to say, I know you were not you. Not the person who I see here now, and I forgive you. I accept your apology, because I can't let this matter anymore'

Reaching out for her walking stick, she limps past him, never giving him a second glance.

Hanging back, till she is out of sight, he slumps against the wall drawing his knees to his chest. Head pressed against the tops of his knees, he finally gives himself permission to grieve all the lives affected in one way or another by his actions as the Winter Soldier. Now that he's seen _her,_ been forgiven by _her_ , maybe just maybe, he too can finish healing.

6


End file.
